


Attribution

by frumplebump



Series: Suraya [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Kid Fic, Museums, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28252332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumplebump/pseuds/frumplebump
Summary: In a different life, he might have been intrigued by the artifacts that were laid out, sparkling and vulnerable, in the museum’s labyrinth of glass cases. In a different life, they would have been worth something.
Series: Suraya [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069649
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Attribution

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another short piece that I wrote and edited and then hid away in my own files for years. I wasn't sure anyone would be interested in this, but sometimes all it takes is a kind word from a person whose opinions you respect and whose stories you enjoy. So thanks, rochelleechidna, for your lovely comment on Seismic, which encouraged me to post this.
> 
> Suraya is Malik's daughter; Seismic is her origin story. In this piece, she's about four or five.

The chill air of the museum galleries made Bakura’s skin feel clammy, and he kept shifting his shoulders to twitch away the knot in his muscles. In a different life, he might have been intrigued by the artifacts that were laid out, sparkling and vulnerable, in the museum’s labyrinth of glass cases. In a different life, they would have been worth something—a week’s worth of meals for that single earring, a decent horse for that heavy gold collar. In this life, though, somebody else had pilfered these tombs, and their spoils meant nothing to Bakura now. He was equally uninterested in the mundane artifacts of real life that were interspersed with the trinkets of the wealthy. He didn’t need to contemplate some frayed sandal or broken earthenware pot; he knew all too well the type of existence that regular people had scratched out back then, in the shadows of the gods and the pharaohs. All of it bored him.

 _Bored_ , that was the word he used to describe the creeping discomfort in his spine, the stumbling sense of displacement. Sometimes his eyes blurred and he could almost forget which side of the glass he was on.

But Suraya loved the museum. She knew each artifact like they were familiar toys, and like toys, she had her favorites. The friezes and granite sculptures didn’t hold much interest for her, but the tiny amulets, the beads, the little votive figures that seemed like they were scaled to nestle in a child’s palm—those, she could spend hours studying. Which was fine with Bakura. He liked having her quiet, and he liked seeing her smile.

She turned away from a display of miniature glass cosmetic pots to look up at him. “Lift me up?”

He crouched so that his eyes were on a level with hers. “You can see fine from down here.”

“But I want to see better.”

Bakura sighed. “Okay, but only for a little bit. You’re getting heavy.”

“Maybe you’re getting weak.” She poked the tip of her tongue out at him.

“Rude,” he said, but there was no bite in the word. He was proud of her sass, and he suspected she knew it.

He clasped his hands together and lowered his arms, making a seat for Suraya to clamber into, then he hoisted her into the air quickly enough to make her squeal. She leaned back against his chest, her legs slung over his arms, and pointed to the next case along. “I want to look at those,” she said.

It was one of her favorite displays: a handful of carved scarabs mounted on a cloth backing, and below that, on a series of tiers, small statues of animals. As they reached the case, she pitched forward for a better look, her fingertips pressed against the glass.

“Hey, don’t do that,” Bakura said.

“Why not?”

“Because then that guard will come over here and be annoying.”

“I’ll just tell him who my dad is,” Suraya said airily, and Bakura had to swallow a burst of laughter.

“Yeah, in that case, do what you want.”

She studied the animal figures quietly for a moment, then launched into the next phase of her routine: demanding that Bakura recite the labels for her. She nearly had them memorized, like a familiar storybook, but every time they came, she insisted that he mumble the text to her.

“What’s that one?” she asked, pointing, and leaving a smudge on the glass.

“It’s a hippo.”

“No… come on…” Suraya pleaded, swinging her legs irritably.

Bakura sighed. “‘Hippopotamus, Middle Kingdom, circa 1850 BCE, from Thebes, Egypt. Faience.’”

“What’s ‘faience’?”

“Hell if I know.”

Suraya giggled; that was part of the recitation as well, every time. “And that one?”

He read her the label for an alabaster statue of a cat, then another for a stone weight in the shape of a crouching bull, and then her favorite, a tiny lapis lazuli amulet that looked like a frog. As he finished with that one, he felt her jump a little in his arms.

“There's a new one!” she exclaimed.

“Which?” he said. “Are you sure?” The little statues all looked more or less the same to him.

“ _Yes_. Look! Look at that bird.”

She was staring at a clay figurine, rougher and less refined than the other artifacts in the vitrine. It was just the suggestion of a bird, two outstretched wings on a rounded body with a notch in the clay for an eye, and a few faint strokes of reddish paint. It looked like it had just the right size and heft to rest pleasingly in someone’s hand, and for the first time since he’d started bringing Suraya to the museum, he actually envied Malik his job of handling these crumbling old things.

“Read the label!” Suraya demanded.

“So bossy,” he grumbled. “‘Figurine of a bird, New Kingdom, circa 1500 BCE, from—” His throat seized up before he could form the next syllable. He blinked. The words were there, printed in the same drab font as all the other little cards; he wasn’t imagining it.

“From where?” Suraya asked.

“Kul Elna.” His voice was hoarse, and Suraya twisted in his arms a little to look up at him.

“What’s that?”

“It’s just… some village,” he said. “Hey, you’re breaking my arms. I’m putting you down now.”

Suraya complained, but slid to the ground, and traipsed over to the next vitrine. Bakura stood behind her, murmuring responses to her questions about the glittering display of gold necklaces and glass beads, but his eyes were glazed and all he could see was a bright blur.

When they reached the end of the gallery, Suraya looked up at Bakura. “Is it time to meet Daddy for lunch yet?”

“Oh, yeah.” He pulled out his phone to check the time. “Yeah, we’re a few minutes late. Now we’re in trouble.”

Suraya giggled as Bakura took her hand and led her to the museum café.

Malik was waiting for them. “I thought you guys stood me up,” he said to Suraya as she scampered over to him. He scooped her up and settled her on his hip, and gave Bakura the smile that meant _I’d kiss you if we weren’t in public_. Then he seemed to notice the furrow between Bakura’s brows, and an eyebrow raised slightly.

“Just got distracted,” Bakura said. “Get me a burger, would you? I’ll find us a table.” He trudged off to one of the booths in the back corner of the café, as Malik looked at Suraya and shrugged.

Suraya was bubbling over with words, and spent more time swinging her feet and chattering than eating her food. Malik had to keep shushing her and reminding her to take a few more bites if they were going to have any hope of finishing their lunch in under an hour.

“And then we saw the animal case, and there’s something new,” Suraya exclaimed.

“Oh? Is there?” Malik smiled. “What could it be, I wonder?”

“Daddy, I know you put it there,” Suraya said sternly, and Malik and Bakura both laughed, Bakura in spite of himself. The word _curator_ was a little beyond her grasp, but Suraya was perfectly aware that her father ruled the Egyptian galleries.

“I guess I must have forgotten, then. What was it… a hippo?”

“No!”

“Oh, right, it was a dragonfly.”

“ _No_ ,” Suraya scolded, “it was a bird.”

“Of course,” Malik agreed. “Now I remember. A little bird.” His gaze drifted from Suraya to Bakura and rested delicately on him.

“From Ku… from where?” Suraya looked to Bakura to finish the unfamiliar name for her.

“From Kul Elna,” Bakura said. He chased a crumb of hamburger around his plate with a cold french fry.

He could feel Suraya’s eyes darting between him and her father, a question on the tip of her tongue. Malik shifted in his seat, then pulled out his wallet.

“Suraya, did you save room for dessert?”

She looked at him suspiciously. “Can I have ice cream?”

“You may,” he said, handing her a folded bill, “but only if you get me one, too.”

Suraya pouted a little, as if offended by Malik’s obvious bribe, then slipped out of her seat and took the cash. “Okay.”

Malik watched her for a moment as she marched away. All of the café servers knew her and were charmed by her; the lady at the dessert station would probably try to chat with her for a few minutes.

“Bakura, are you all right?” Malik’s hand reached out to Bakura and grazed his elbow gently.

“I’m fine,” he grunted. Then he met Malik’s eyes. “Is that thing really from…”

Malik nodded. “I mean, strictly speaking the label should say ‘probably from Kul Elna,’ but I’m confident in that attribution.”

“How do you know?”

Bakura saw a glimmer of pride in Malik’s eyes. “I went back to the original archaeological records,” he explained. “It was actually Ryou that got me started on it. Something he found in the archives… No one realized Kul Elna’s significance at the time, but the dig site perfectly matches the location we have now. That little bird’s been in storage for decades because no one thought it was important. I’m trying to match up a few other pieces with the records from that dig…” His voice softened and trailed off.

“Are you doing this for me?”

“Well, and for the historical record. But yes… mostly for you.”

Bakura was silent.

“Is that okay?” Malik touched his arm again.

“I don’t…” He thought of the little bird, sealed up behind glass, spotlit by a cold LED. It looked lonely and exposed, the stark label cruelly calling attention to how dislocated it was in time and place. Then he imagined it in storage instead, in the icy dark, swathed in acid-free foam and identified by a string of soulless digits. And that was more of a burial than any of his family had received… He shivered.

When he looked up, he saw Suraya making her way back to their booth, a cup of ice cream in each hand. She noticed him looking at her and smiled, and reflexively he smiled back. He recalled her breath fogging the glass and her fingers leaving smudges as she leaned on the display case, transfixed by that tiny bird.

“Yes,” he murmured to Malik. “Yes, it’s fine.”

Suraya climbed back into her chair and pushed the vanilla ice cream towards Malik. “Hey, I wanted chocolate,” he protested. “Can I have a bite of yours?”

Suraya giggled and shook her head, shielding her ice cream with both arms. “Daddy, what’s Kul Elna?”

Malik stilled, gazing at Bakura. After a moment, Suraya shifted her gaze to him, too. “What’s Kul Elna?” she repeated.

Her pronunciation wasn’t quite right, but Bakura liked the way the name sounded when she said it. It had been a long time since a child’s voice had spoken those words.

“It’s where I come from,” he told her. “It’s my home.”


End file.
